The roar of the collapsing VIP seats was still rumbling behind him.
Angron did not look back.
The nobles who had tumbled into the bloody sand would naturally be dealt with.
The war-slaves had waited too long for this day; they did not need him to tell them what to do.
His gaze remained locked on the upper catwalk.
The white-robed High Rider was still running.
That face—Angron remembered it clearly.
Beside the surgical table, it was that same face looking down at him, commanding the servitors to drive the Butcher’s Nails into his skull.
Now there was no smile on that face.
His white robe streaked grey with ash and bloody sand, the High Rider ran while jamming his thumb into the comms unit on his wrist, his knuckles turning white.
“Control Deck!” “Reboot the collars!” “Open the lower-level poison gas valves!” A damaged loudspeaker tore his voice into shrill, fractured shrieks.
Down below, several nobles who had not yet scrambled to their feet turned pale in an instant.
They were still down there.
Once the poison gas was released, nobles and slaves would breathe the very same air.
Angron bared his teeth in a savage grin.
This place was truly clean.
So clean that no matter who was thrown in, they died all the same.
Two guards blocked the steps, power spears leveled, the disruption fields at the tips humming loudly.
Angron seized the first spear and yanked it toward himself.
The guard stumbled forward.
Before he could even raise his head, Angron’s palm clamped onto his helmet.
*Crack.* The visor, along with the skull beneath it, collapsed into the chestplate.
Just as the second guard went to raise his shield, Karrus slammed into him from the side.
A crackling shock spear swept across the back of the guard’s knees, upending him onto the steps.
The rim of the shield sliced open Karrus’s forearm, blood immediately gushing out.
He did not let go.
The tip of the spear rammed into the gap in the guard’s armpit armor and twisted violently.
“He’s trying to lock down the collars!” Karrus bellowed, his voice breaking.
Angron didn’t answer.
He stepped over the fallen guard.
The white-robed High Rider had already darted into the corridor, where heavy blast doors were grinding shut.
Hydraulic pistons groaned under the pressure.
Angron picked up a snapped section of platinum handrail and hurled it forward.
The railing grazed the High Rider’s shoulder and impaled the hydraulic cylinder next to the door.
*Bang.* Hydraulic fluid sprayed across the wall.
The blast door jammed, leaving only a narrow gap.
The High Rider glanced back.
“Machine guard!” At the end of the corridor, a platinum machine guard spun around, the melta cannon embedded in its chest beginning to charge.
Angron charged.
A blast of melta light grazed his left shoulder, searing skin into curling crisps and filling his nostrils with the stench of scorched flesh.
It hurt.
But it wasn’t enough.
He jammed his hand directly into the muzzle, five fingers clamping around the focusing lens inside.
White light detonated inside the machine guard’s torso.
Angron grabbed its pauldrons, ripped the entire machine guard from its wall mount, and smashed it against the jammed blast door.
With the first blow, the doorframe buckled.
With the second, the machine guard’s chest cavity ruptured, tearing the blast door half open.
Angron tossed aside the smoking wreckage and bent low to step into the corridor.
Hot fluid dripped from the frame onto his back, hissing as it gave off wisps of white smoke.
Karrus followed close behind.
The collar was still clamped around his neck, clattering loudly against his collarbone with every stride.
Looking at Angron’s back, he suddenly bellowed down toward the arena below.
“Angron!” His voice echoed back into the Bloody Sand Arena.
Below, the war-slaves still locked in battle raised their heads.
An iron-masked war-slave split a guard’s knee open with an axe and roared along with him: “Angron!” Further off, a pit slave who had just crawled out of a shattered cage raised his iron chains, his voice raspy as sandpaper on stone: “Angron!” The shouts were chaotic.
Some had mouths full of blood; others couldn’t even see clearly what was happening in the corridor.
They simply saw that dark green hulking figure chasing through the door where the nobles had fled, and the rage held back in their chests for half a lifetime suddenly found an outlet.
“Angron!” “Angron!” The roars rolled down through the gap in the VIP seating, then surged back up from the depths of the cage pits.
Angron’s footsteps paused for half a beat.
He did not look back.
He simply reached out and tore a steel beam from the corridor wall.
“Keep up.” Karrus laughed, his mouth stained red with blood.
“Hear that?” “Keep up!” The Control Deck was at the end of the passage.
Just as a turret in the hall completed its turn, the steel beam flew through the air, smashing the turret’s base along with the wall behind it.
When a poison gas nozzle jutted halfway out, Angron grabbed a guard’s corpse and jammed it into the vent.
A squad of guards burst out from a side door.
Karrus led the slaves to meet them.
Short-barreled guns rammed into faces, arc spears jabbed into knees, chainaxes chopped through joints.
The fallen bodies choked the side door; those behind tripped over them and were dragged down into the blood.
Angron kicked open the doors to the Control Deck.
Red emergency lights blinded the semi-circular hall.
Racks of consoles lined the walls, projections displaying the structural layout of every level of the Bloody Sand Arena.
Staging cages.
Beast pens.
Execution chambers.
Augmentation decks.
Lower gas valves.
And a dense swarm of red dots.
Collars.
The white-robed High Rider stood before the main console, his wrist already plugged into the interface slot.
Several neural cables pierced his flesh, blood creeping down the back of his hand.
A dozen tech-slaves cowered against the wall.
They wore metal collars too, their heads bowed low; none dared to look at Angron.
“Halt!” shrieked the High Rider.
The war-slaves at the doorway froze.
Some reached up to touch their own necks.
That ring of metal was still clamped there, cold as a living parasite.
The High Rider panted, a smug assurance creeping back into his eyes.
“This is the Bloody Sand Arena master control.” “Every collar in every cage pit, every poison gas valve—it’s all in my hands.” He shoved his wrist deeper into the slot, his face twitching with pain.
“If I die, they will lock down permanently.” “Poison gas will flood the lower levels.” “You can’t save them.” Karrus gripped his shock spear tighter.
He wanted to charge, but forced himself to stop.
There were still people down below.
There were still people in the cages.
Angron stared at the High Rider.
His mind suddenly went very quiet.
So quiet he could hear the blood dripping onto the console.
He desperately wanted to slam that face into the metal.
Smash it.
Pulverize it.
Grind it until bone and console became one.
But that was too easy.
Angron turned his head and looked at the tech-slaves by the wall.
“Who knows how to run this?” No one spoke.
The High Rider sneered, his voice trembling.
“They wouldn’t dare.” He glared at the tech-slaves like they were a row of tools.
“Slaves.” Just two words.
Someone near the wall flinched.
Angron walked over.
He did not grab the nearest one.
In the corner, a thin, scrawny man was staring intently at the main console, his fingers twitching faintly as if rehearsing a sequence in thin air.
Angron hauled him up and set him down before the main console.
“You know how.” It wasn’t a question.
The tech-slave’s face was terrifyingly pale.
He looked at the High Rider, then back at the console, his lips quivering uncontrollably.
“It needs…
living bio-authorization.” The smile froze on the High Rider’s face.
Angron nodded.
In the next instant, he seized the High Rider’s wrist and rammed the hand back into the interface slot.
*Snap.* The wrist bone shattered.
The neural cables were jammed violently back into flesh and blood.
The High Rider shrieked, his entire body arching, only for Angron to clamp a hand onto the back of his neck and slam him back down against the cold metal surface.
His forehead crashed into the desk, blood spurting from his nostrils.
“Then I’ll let you live a little longer.” The tech-slave reached out his hands.
His first keystroke missed.
The console emitted a harsh error chime.
He flinched as if burned.
Standing at the door, Karrus said softly, “Hurry.” The tech-slave gritted his teeth and hit the right key on the second try.
The console glowed with a dull grey light.
[Authority Confirmed.] The High Rider thrashed wildly.
Angron held him down like a snake with a broken spine.
First security layer unlocked.
Second layer.
Third layer.
The tech-slave’s breathing grew frantic, but his eyes gradually kindled with light.
He realized what he was doing now.
It wasn’t just surviving.
He was cracking open a cage.
On the console screen, the red dots belonging to the interior of the Bloody Sand Arena began to flash.
Staging cages.
Beast pens.
Execution chambers.
Augmentation decks.
Lower war-slave barracks.
The tech-slave slammed his hand down on a final key.
A cold mechanical voice echoed from above the hall: [Bloody Sand Arena Collar Overrides Released.] For a split second, there was absolute silence.
Karrus lowered his head.
The metal ring around his neck gave a soft click.
*Click.* The collar released, dropped to the floor, and rolled into the corner.
He froze.
As if he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
Only after a long moment did he slowly crouch down and pick up the collar.
Sweat stains and dead skin still clung to its inner band.
He squeezed it.
It didn’t budge.
His hand was trembling.
“It’s off,” he whispered softly.
As if afraid that speaking any louder would cause the thing to snap back onto his neck.
A second sound echoed down the corridor.
*Click.* Then a third.
A fourth.
*Click.* *Click.* The sounds came from everywhere.
From beneath the VIP seating.
From the staging cages.
From the beast pens.
From the execution chambers.
From the deeper darkness.
Collar after collar fell to the ground.
Light as falling rain.
Yet heavy as though the entirety of the Bloody Sand Arena was tearing apart.
Some sat frozen inside their cages, hands clutching their necks, terrified it was all a deathbed hallucination.
Others smashed their fallen collars against the walls—once, twice—until their fingers bled.
Others laughed twice, then choked, coughing up mouthfuls of black blood.
The tech-slave struck the second row of controls.
Cage door after cage door began to lift.
Some jammed halfway, and those inside stooped low to crawl out.
The first hand reached out from the dark.
It was missing two fingers.
Then a second.
A third.
Pit slaves, beast tenders, condemned prisoners, scar-covered gladiators—they poured out from the cages.
The guards tried to form ranks.
Angron looked down through the shattered window of the Control Deck, raised his arm, and hurled the steel beam.
The beam slammed into an ammo crate beside a turret platform.
The explosion tore a gaping hole in their defensive line.
The war-slaves surged forward.
The defensive line didn’t last twenty breaths.
The High Rider lay pressed against the console, his mouth dripping blood, eyes wide as if about to tear open.
“Impossible…” Angron looked down at him.
“Look closer.” The High Rider gasped for breath a few times, then suddenly burst into laughter.
His laugh sounded like a broken bellows.
“The Bloody Sand Arena…” he hissed through his teeth.
“You’ve only taken the Bloody Sand Arena.” The tech-slave’s hands froze.
He looked toward the edge of the projection wall.
There was another mass of red dots there.
Far more.
Denser still.
They were not part of the Bloody Sand Arena schematic.
Desh’ea lower slave camps.
Workshop barracks.
High-born household thrall sectors.
Transport shafts.
Outer Labor Sector.
All red.
The tech-slave’s voice turned hoarse.
“He’s right.” Karrus looked up.
“Where are those controlled from?” The tech-slave pointed to the edge of the projection.
The outline of a tall spire lit up.
“The city relay tower.” “Outside the Bloody Sand Arena.” Beyond the walls, sirens wailed.
Low, urgent.
Desh’ea had finally realized what was happening.
Angron stared at that glowing cluster of red dots.
The cages inside the Bloody Sand Arena were open.
There were even more cages outside.
He bent down and picked up a dropped collar.
It still held the warmth of a body.
Not his own.
He slowly tightened his grip around his palm.
The metal deformed, digging into his flesh, blood oozing out.
He kept squeezing.
Until the collar crumpled into a lump of scrap metal.
Iron flaking down through his fingers.
“Then we fight our way out.”